


The Way of Fools

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Advice, Canon Era, Gen, Minor Injuries, same-prompt fic challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: “The way of fools seems right to them, but the wise listen to advice.” (Proverbs 12:15)





	The Way of Fools

In the spring of 1816, the mule was lamed. The beast had slipped in the snow-melt and nearly thrown the bishop on the journey back from one of the mountain curacies. Man and mule returned to Digne together, but it would be some time before the mule would be fit to carry him again. 

His parishioners offered to lend their own beasts when the time came for the bishop to depart again for the mountains, but he refused them one and all. “Your horses and mules are needed in the fields,” he said. “I shall walk, as I have before, as our good Lord did.”

Madame Magloire was quick to voice her disapproval as she set the table for supper that evening. “Monseigneur, you must not go,” she said. “If even the mule cannot manage the mud, you are sure to slip and fall. You must wait until the ground has firmed up.” 

But the bishop shook his head, “If I am to visit everyone, I cannot afford to wait for a little mud. The Lord will provide a path for my feet, so my ankles shall not give way.”[1]

Mademoiselle Baptistine offered no help when Madame Magloire tried to insist. As ever, she said that she trusted her brother to make his own decisions. Their meal was a silent one. 

And so the bishop departed early the next morning on foot. The going was slow with some streets nearly impassable with sinking mud and spreading puddles. Each night he stopped to rest in one of the villages of his diocese, and the people tried to dissuade him from his course. Each morning, he refused them and pointed to the road, saying, “See how the sun has dried the earth! The road is firmer than yesterday, and soon it shall be as dry as summer.” 

He reached the mountain parish after a few days of travel, and the people were delighted to see him. For two weeks, the bishop preached and tended to the parish, bringing sunlight to the souls still awaiting spring. When the time came to return to Digne, he was once again offered the loan of a donkey, or the company of a child for the road. Again, he refused, saying, “The road is easier from here. You have greater need of these beasts and these extra hands. My two feet carried me here, and they shall carry me back.” 

The road was almost completely dried when the bishop descended the mountain. However, the shady places along the path were slower to dry out than the rest. One poorly planted step brought the bishop to his knees in the mud. He was not greatly hurt by the fall, but his ankle protested his weight when he regained his footing. 

“Man plots his course,” the bishop said to himself, as he rested beneath an old tree, “but the Lord chooses his steps.”[2] He considered the path ahead, and the distance he had already come. It was too late in the day to turn back to the mountain parish, and the climb uphill would be difficult. It was better to continue on, although the going would not be much easier. 

The bishop smiled when he laid eyes on a sturdy branch that had fallen from the tree over the winter. It would serve him well as a crutch. “Would you like to see a little more of the world?” he asked the branch as he picked it up. “I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me along the way, but we shall keep each other’s company, and I will tell you a story.” 

He spoke to the branch of his diocese as he hobbled down the mountain path, of the many souls entrusted to his care. He spoke of his wild youth, of his long-departed wife, of his time in Italy and what had led him to Digne. And at length, he told the branch of the man he had helped two seasons prior. 

“The poor man had suffered so greatly, you see, that he thought himself beyond help,” the bishop said. “I offered him food and shelter, but he struggled to accept even that much. I cannot describe to you the burden on his soul.” He thought often of the former convict, and the transformation he had witnessed in a matter of hours. The silver that had so long been a vice of his had bought the man a new life, and a chance to help others. 

The bishop paused as he reached the top of a small rise, and considered the throbbing pain in his ankle. He recalled, too, the many offers of assistance from his parishioners, and the insistence of Madame Magloire that he wait to travel. 

“I have given everything to those who are in need. I have helped those who cannot ask for assistance. And yet I have refused help when I myself was in need.” He gripped the branch more firmly, grateful for its support, “‘The way of fools seems right to them, but the wise listen to advice.’[3] I forget sometimes that I am not the young man I once was. My stubbornness does me no good. Next time, I shall accept the loan of a mule. Until then,” he said to the branch, “you and I must help each other along.” 

Feeling a small weight lifted from his shoulders at the acknowledgement of his own folly, the bishop resumed his course. He reached the next village just as the sun was setting, and all were relieved to see their bishop safely returned to them. When he departed the next morning, he gratefully accepted the offer of a ride in a farmer’s cart. Though his ankle was improved after a night’s rest, he kept the branch with him as a reminder of the good advice he had ignored. 

On his arrival in Digne some days later, Madame Magloire and Mademoiselle Baptistine were there to greet him at the door. Madame Magloire clucked at him and gave a litany of I told you so’s as she helped him to unpack. His sister, however, took his arm and guided him to his seat, asking after the people of the mountain parish. 

“They are all well,” said the bishop, resting the branch against the table. “I am grateful to them for reminding me that a gardener cannot tend his flowers if he has not cared for himself. I shall try to heed Madame Magloire’s good advice in the future.” 

The servant paused in her mutterings, mouth agape as she processed what had been said. She smiled to herself as she resumed her work, vindicated.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Psalm 18:36  
> [2] Proverbs 16:9  
> [3] Proverbs 12:15


End file.
